November 2, 1972 - On what I can only assume was a gloriously sunny afternoon in the desolate plains of West Texas, I came screaming into the world in early November of 1972. Stories have been told to me, from various sources of varying reliability of that day. From what I can gather, I was pretty much the second coming of our Lord and Savior in the eyes of my family. I assume that most babies are viewed as heroic in their arrival but I get the feeling that my heroism was actual.
whatsoever on the topic but have instead pieced together a story over the years based on limited medical information and my genetically enhanced ability to add a certain degree of bullshit to any situation. Rheumatic fever kills 4 out of 5 fetuses. Those numbers may be slightly off but in Europe, where diseases of all kinds have been appropriately handled throughout history, Rheumatic fever is allegedly to blame for Hitler, Boy George, the hairstyles of Flock of Seagulls and British Parliament, George Michael's compulsive masturbatory habits, Napoleon, and all manner of hooliganism. When my mother was diagnosed, the medical staff at the Hospital on Webb Air Force Base warned her that she would be giving birth to a creature with the mental capacity of a wet Nerf Ball. They did their best to prepare her for what life with a severely deformed child would be like. From day one, I have felt the need to prove people wrong. After what I assume was a pleasant birthing process for my mother; (you're welcome, Mom) I was whisked away in one of those plastic display boxes in which they like to seal babies for the first few hours of their lives. My mother, while exhausted in every meaning of the word, was thrilled when the doctors told her that I would probably only eat a quarter of an ounce of food and I ate 2 ounces. She was thrilled when I pushed myself up on my arms and looked around the room in my first hours on earth, Mom seems to think that was God's way of letting her know that I was okay. I tend to believe it was my way of telling the doctors to go screw themselves! I would spend decades proving my retardation but it would NOT be on their terms.
Obviously, my time in the thriving metropolis of Big Spring, Texas was not confined to the hospital alone. I was eventually deemed beautiful and healthy after a battery of tests confirmed what my proud parents already knew. I was perfect. Had all my parts, wasn't oddly shaped, had a mythical sea serpent between my legs, and I was cleared for departure. Again, as I picture it in my head and therefore share with you as fact; it was a glorious day in West Texas as I arrived at the majestic home that the Air Force so graciously built and donated to the parents of this long awaited child. In a sense, that house was the modernized version of the Bethlehem Manger. In reality, it was a tiny duplex that most likely looked exactly like every other house on the street, Regardless of its size, or the fact that we lived in an area of the country that eerily resembles the surface of Mars, it was where my first memories were created. I would never call it my hometown, but I guess in the truest sense of the word, that’s exactly what it was.
I’ve managed to piece together the first couple of years based on pictures I’ve seen and stories I’ve heard. I have also made up a bunch of crap, so just enjoy the story and stop being a dick about it, okay?
Anyway, I have very distant, very fragmented memories of that home in Big Spring. I remember that there was a brick wall in the front. I don’t know if it bordered the driveway or if it led up to the front door. I just remember that it was a light colored brick and I was sitting on it with my Dad when I found out I was going to be a brother. In all honesty, it probably wasn’t even a wall. It was probably more of a divider between the yard and the walkway to the front door, but to a two year old kid; it seemed like a fortress. I remember sitting on that wall and flying a kite, and I remember sitting on that wall just waiting for my Dad to get home from another day of unfathomable heroism. Oh, I could fathom it; you can’t. See, there are a lot of kids out there whose fathers get up and go serve this country in whatever way their particular branch of the Armed Forces asks them to, but my Dad was different. See…..my Dad protected not only the country, but planet earth as well. His plane was faster, his bullets were bigger, and his muscles were stronger. I believed every plane I heard fly through the endless expanse of West Texas sky was being piloted by my father. Such details as differing types of jets…..two planes flying over at once….the fact that my Dad was sitting next to me…..none of that crap mattered. He was my Dad and he was magic. Deal with it. He also had the girl you'd expect such a hero to have, but their love was not flaunted like seems to be the case in movies.
My mother, with her long blonde hair, quick-wit, and infectious laugh complemented my dad perfectly. Where he had absolutely nothing to teach me when it came to anything artistic, sanitary, culinary, or profane; my mother had achieved expertise in all these categories and more. She was the one that stayed home with me and guided me through this world while Dad took care of evils in the sky.
It’s funny the things you remember from your youth. I don’t remember anything about my bedroom in that house. I don’t remember a single childhood toy, and if it weren’t for pictures and later reunions, I wouldn’t be able to pick half the people from this era of my life out of a lineup. I wouldn’t be able to describe the house itself with any great detail, and I couldn’t tell you what we were doing on the day Watergate became a news story. On the other hand, I can recall some of the events as if they happened yesterday. I recall the sweet smell of my baby brother’s head on the day they brought him home from the hospital. I can describe the green and white, distinctively seventies couch on which my Mom laid him down with extraordinary accuracy, but I can’t for the life of me remember why I called my little brother “Ashley” for the first six months of his life. His name is Ryan but in my head, for some reason he looked like an Ashley. I vividly recall the world’s dumbest dog over which my parents so often reminisce and I recall just like I was watching a movie the time he got his head stuck in the sprinkler while trying to wrestle with the spitting intruder. In my head, I see a very red, very shiny, Irish Setter with a LawnBird sprinkler stuck around its neck, running through the yard, biting at the water as its spray made its inevitable return to her face. Even at the tender age of two and a half years old, I remember thinking “what a dumbass!”I don’t remember hearing anything about the Munich Olympics at the time the terrible event was happening, but then again, I was only a month old at the time. Still, for some reason, I have always felt a strange, inexplicable interest in that horrible story. It’s as if that particular tragedy is somehow lodged in my psyche. I don’t recall ever hearing anything about Bill Gates and Paul Allen launching Microsoft, but then again I was three at the time. However, I do recall exactly what I was wearing one rainy day when we stayed inside and my Mom let me sit up on the counter and make chocolate chip cookies with her. I remember what it smelled like, and I remember the feel of the wooden spoon in my hand. I think I rode that dumbass dog like a horse that day too. Anyway, I was wearing red shorts with a yellow Winnie the Pooh stitched into the leg. I had a sleeveless red and white striped shirt on and brown shoes. The seventies were a disgusting time, weren’t they? That memory may be why I rarely wear brown shoes to this day.
Reading the headlines from this period in time would lead a person to believe that there was not any happiness to be found. Our President resigned amid scandalous circumstances, terrorists threw a grenade into the helicopter full of nearly freed hostages, and hippies still refused to bathe. In my head though, they were happy times. They were the years and moments that were truly the seeds of so many of my core beliefs today. I have no way of knowing which events from that early stage in my life formed the man I am today, but I do know that right there, in the West Texas plains launched a pretty damned interesting life.
